I noticed it was midmorning when we
resumed southbound travel. To left and right were more 'estates'
similar to the one at which we stopped, with the largest of all such
labeled as 'Blomfels'.

The Blomfels 'estate' was nearly as
long as Roos – its width exceeded its length – and when I glanced
through its trio of gates I saw numbers of long two-story brick
buildings. The place seemed to add its own especial portion of soot
and smoke to the air, and the filth and grime that seemed to settle
upon all surfaces in its vicinity was enough to make for both
marveling and a fervent desire to bathe. The stench, however, made
for both gagging and gasping.

“What is that stink?” I gasped, as
I pointed to a thick and toxic-looking black plume of smoke.

“A
coal-oven,” said Gabriel. “That one smells as if fresh-lit.”

“Are there..?”

I looked around, and was stunned. To
both right and left there were more similar plumes of greasy-looking
black smoke.

“Smelters?” I asked.

“Those are a bit south of here,”
said Lukas. “I tried to stay out of this part as much as I could.
It's bad for the wind.”

“W-wind?” I asked.

“Breathing,” said Lukas. “I
believed what Anna said about that other stuff before we went
on this trip.”

“And?” asked Gabriel.

“She's right about him being sick,”
said Lukas.

An intense reek came from the west,
and amid the greasy plumes of smoke I saw what looked to be strangely
tall orange and yellow flames. For some reason, I knew I was
seeing a smelter in action, and more importantly, an uncommon
example.

“Smelter?” I asked, as I pointed
to the flames.

“Aye,” said Lukas. “I think
that one does that special haunted iron, as its flames look clearer
and brighter than most.”

I then noticed an uneven rumbling hum
that quickly devolved into the banging of a multitude of
'piano-sized' machines mingled with a whirling growl that seemed
intended to cause deafness. I recalled what Georg had said about
'barrels' and furnaces, and his talk suddenly seemed uncommonly
likely.

“Blowers as tall as a man...” I
muttered.

“They do not call them that,” said
Gabriel, “even if each smelter has at least two such machines for
its wind.” A pause, then, “at least yours should not give as
much trouble as those here.”

Gabriel's speech had again changed for
the worse, with 'mystery' being added to 'oblivion' and 'assurance'.
I had no words for him, for I could feel the steadily growing
proximity of our destination, and that had my entire attention – at
least, until I saw the sign at the juncture of two wide cobbled
roads.

“What?”
I thought. “Are those districts here?” There was no answer.

The built-up portion drew steadily
closer with each minute, while our current area showed what looked
like huge 'corrals'. None of them seemed occupied, however, until we
came past one with an open gate that positively reeked of mules.

“What is that place?” I asked.

“Where they sell mules, if I go by
the stink,” said Lukas.

The 'built-up' region proved something
of an anticlimax compared to where we had gone previously, or so it
seemed at first. I could feel the presence of black-dressed thugs
and misers, even if they seemed scarce, and I was vindicated when a
pair of coaches rumbled past, each towed by a team of eight mules.

Yet still, my thoughts were for the
house proper, and with the passing minutes, I was able to separate
the sensing of the region itself from the house.

“That place is as bad as that copy
of the Swartsburg we passed through,” I thought, “and it hides
better than almost anywhere.”

“Past tense,” said the soft voice.
“It is hidden no longer.”

The shops to each side of our road
thronged with people, and the ceaseless stir and gabble of 'business'
was enough to cause reaching for the fever-bark powder and taking two
pinches. After washing it down, I looked at the major cross-streets
– those were more common in this area than anywhere so far – but
with each such glance, I felt my attention being pulled slightly left
of straight ahead. This continued until we came to a subdued-seeming
region of blackened wood and stone.

The
people in this area seemed afraid of some nameless nightmare, and
their furtive glances toward us spoke of something well-beyond any
common notion of fear.

Faintly, I smelled salt air, and
perhaps drying fish. I found myself distracted, so much so that when
Gabriel spoke, I did not hear him at first.

“This is the house proper,” he
said.

I looked to my left to see a
forbidding walled 'compound', with a centered two-doored gate of
mottled dark metal, tall spike-topped walls of blue-gray stone blocks
set in ancient mortar, and a shuttered 'viewing port' next to the
right leaf of the gate.

“This looks more, uh, modern than
anything I've seen here,” I thought, even as I heard faint steps
snapping on the other side.

With a slow, irregular, and rustling
groan, the 'leaves' of the gate slowly slid to each side. I noted a
shiny metal track embedded in a gray-white crystalline material –
it looked like concrete – as the gate opened wider. Beyond the
threshold grew a wide 'field' of deep-green grass, and bordering this
courtyard were wide stone walkways roofed over with darkened metal
'sun-shields'.

Gabriel looked at me, and as I faced
the now wide-open gate, I knew it was 'my' decision to go within.
Echoing within my mind were various statements I had recently heard,
even as Jaak turned out of line and slowly crossed the road with
echoing hoofbeats to then briefly pause at the threshold. The others
slowly came out of line, even as I waited.

“And for what, I do not know...” I
thought.

As if the question in my mind had
become blatantly visible, a 'groom' abruptly 'materialized'. I
glanced at this man, wondering as I did about 'ceremony', for some
reason. I then decided to go inside.

Within two seconds of actually
crossing the threshold, I noted the following:

The 'groom' had vanished as abruptly
as he had showed.

The 'courtyard' was more than twice as
deep as it was wide, and I had been deceived about its width. It was
easily a hundred yards wide, if not more, and I had thought it to be
roughly forty yards wide.

The building surrounded the courtyard
on three sides, with a simple wall behind us.

The interior of the place was of such
a fussily clean and nightmarishly neat nature that I found it
troubling, and not merely by the contrast with the outside of the
wall. There was something else, and I could not determine what that
'something' was.

“And it isn't just recollections of
my past,” I thought. “That might account for a small fraction of
what I'm seeing.”

The cumulative whole of what I noticed
made for raw nerves, and my growing sense of unease made for
wondering about 'Blackbeard' – and the shuddering boom of the gate
closing was only amplified in my mind by the rattling clack of the
'wall' locking up 'solid'.

The echoes in my mind were of a
certain label, and I dared not think it, much less speak of it.
Instead, I turned around.

Our entire party had been 'swallowed
whole', and my nerves again rattled like chains. I turned,
suppressing a whole-body shudder, and saw a watering trough but a
short distance ahead. I had not seen it prior, and 'thirst' – I
was feeling that of the animals – and my own need of distraction
made it a fervent desire and longing.

I headed for it accordingly, and I had
barely set foot upon the grass when another 'groom' – a different
person, even if his clothing made for an involuntary gasp of
recognition – 'materialized' but six feet away at the junction of
grass and walkway.

I looked past – or perhaps, through
– the 'groom' and focused upon the wall behind him under the
'sun-shield', and mentally wiped a sweaty brow as my eyes seemed to
bore into the darkened stone of the wall. I needed but a fraction of
a second to find first one slightly darker line, then another,
followed by the outlines of hinges and perhaps a latch. I then
focused upon the groom.

His clothing went abruptly gauzy over
his chest and arms, and I saw several familiar-looking tattoos. I
shuddered inwardly as I caught the reek of rotten meat and strong
drink.

“And dirty skin, and...”

I then knew much more, which cut off
all thoughts of his lack of hygiene.

Unlike Brumm's people, or Brumm
himself, or even the trio of guard-thugs at the 'border', this man
was a true expert at hiding. He turned to 'lead us on', and I
'listened' carefully. Faintly, I seemed to hear words of speech, and
I strained to divine the meaning of these words.

“...witch-hole... Swartsburg...
...he stinks...”

The mystery grew with each garbled
word I heard, for I could not determine the speaker. More, I felt a
chilled aspect as I followed the 'groom' under the now-obvious
metallic awning and its tall, sleek, and pristine-looking posts. I
glanced down, and saw more white crystalline 'concrete' – and on
the darkened stones to my right and ahead, I saw faint white
crystalline stains. I felt reminded first of niter, and then of the
thirst of the animals.

“Is there water for the horses?” I
asked.

The groom halted abruptly, then turned
slowly around. As he did, a 'veil' seemed to fall from his face, and
I saw clearly his narrow-set brown eyes attempting to hide under
unusually bushy brows. This made for a sensation that I could not
recognize; and wordlessly, he turned again to resume walking.

Yet now I heard differences: his pace
had altered its rhythm, and each footfall echoed faintly. With each
snapping step, I heard a brief, high-pitched whine; and when I looked
ahead again, I saw a wide and darkened doorway some distance away,
one easily wide enough to pass both buggies at once.

Again, I heard the rhythm of the
'groom's' marching, and amid his snapping cadence I could hear the
characteristic noises of the true-step. For some reason, I glanced
at the floor beneath my feet – and then shuddered, for I saw faint
yet distinct tracks made by obvious pointed boots. I again looked at
the 'groom'.

His clothing had acquired an 'added
dimension', almost an 'overlay' of some kind, such that I was seeing
superimposed upon his 'commonplace' clothing something entirely
different. The starch-stiffened severe-cut brown cloth, the wide
black leather belt, the pointed boots...

I recognized what I was seeing
instantly, and the silent thoughts formed the word 'miser' within my
mind.

The man halted in mid-stride, and
turned toward us. His face was an angry scowl that mirrored my
latest thought unto perfection.

“Who amongst ye spoke?” he asked,
in a barely-controlled angry hiss. “I heard one of ye speak, and
that plainly.”

“I heard no one,” I said softly.
“This place tends to be, uh, good for echoes...”

My speech paused as I looked around to
see faint and growing trickles of water mingling with the jagged
lines of crystalline 'niter' upon the walls, and I followed these
trickles upward to see thick beads of moisture gathered in bunches
along obvious seams in the roof. This made for a question, which was
mine alone to ask.

“Water?”

The groom seemed 'satisfied', for some
unfathomable reason. He turned, then resumed his measured 'pacing'.
The whining echoes followed the part-hid crackle of his steps.

The traces of whitish salts upon the
darkened stones to my right reminded me of catacombs, ones where one
might find certain well-known casks of wine – and as an answer, I
heard what might have been the faint rasp of a trowel upon stone. I
shook my head slightly in hopes of 'shaking off' the onslaught of a
nightmare – and the 'groom' slowly 'sank down' into the crystalline
whiteness of the floor.

“Where did he go?” asked Sepp.

Hearing a familiar voice seemed to
break the hold of the unsleeping nightmares I was enduring, and with
but a few steps, I had an answer, for I was at the threshold of the
doorway I had seen earlier – and at the bottom of a steep downward
path I saw standing amid scattered straw the 'groom'. His
disappearance was no longer a mystery. I paused again at this
further 'threshold', and looked to each side before stepping down the
ramp.

With each such step I took, I now felt
clearer the nature of the trap we had set foot in. Above my head was
a tall and darkened ceiling, and to our right along a curving 'path'
was a hay-carpeted corridor flanked by stalls. I paused, looked to
my left, and saw a thick door of iron-bound varnished wood.

“Go ye down that widened hall,”
said the groom with a haughty clipped voice, “and array ye your
mounts with all haste, for thou art expected.”

My thoughts – 'the written format
spoken' – were interrupted by a certain knowledge of needed
care as I walked along the corridor between mounds of hay and bags of
grain. While I had doubts – many doubts, and those of abiding
nature – about this place and those in it, I had no doubts
whatsoever about the dire need to care for both horses and buggies.
The smell that clenched my nose spoke amply to confirm it, and I
knew...

No, that word was not adequate.
This was a degree of certainty that I had seldom felt before this
trip, and only since being given to the pendant had it become
'common'.

Mule-traces had a deleterious effect
upon hooves and iron, and even the mules themselves were not immune.

“Second kingdom counselor...”

These words echoed in my mind, and
perhaps they faintly trod the air – and to hear them made for
questioning:

Was this memory I was hearing?

Or was someone trying to 'speak'?

My suspicions of this matter grew, and
only the sharp reek of 'mule' jolted me. I softly said, “we will
need to watch carefully in here...”

“What is it?” asked Lukas.

“Dried straw for each horse,
carefully cleaning each hoof, and the buggies...”

I felt clearly the rising rage-mingled
fury of the 'groom', and I halted where I stood. My right hand went
toward the flap closing my holster, even as I turned slowly and began
retracing my steps, and the others stood still as I moved among them.
Gilbertus was whispering in Sepp's ear, and the face of the latter
spoke as if a plain-lettered sign. I could almost read...

“Hoof rot?” My words seemed to
clang echoing in metallic fashion, even though I had whispered. I
wondered more if what I heard was in my ears or in my mind. Again, I
heard words, and repeated them.

“Mule-traces..?”

“Aye,” said Lukas. “They'll go
lame in hours if we don't clean 'em carefully, and the buggy-irons
will...”

I passed Kees, then Karl, and advanced
upon the 'groom' himself. With each step I made, I saw his 'mask'
becoming more and more 'shaky', and with each second, I saw more
clearly 'disappointment' mingled with the 'fury' and 'rage' I had
noticed earlier. At first, I thought to speak calmly and logically,
with words of common sense to this man; and with each such thought, I
knew clearer that it would be a total waste of time.

More importantly, I knew what this man
would respond to – and I had no desire to speak in that fashion. I
halted but feet away – well-clear of a possible knife-attack –
and looked straight into the narrow miser's eyes of the man.

He looked at his feet. I then was
certain of my words.

“We will come when it seems good to
us,” I snapped, “and that will be when we have attended to our
mounts and vehicles.” I paused, looked down, and saw the traces of
green-gray muck left by a horse.

“You know what that stuff
does, don't you?” I asked pointedly, as I pointed at the
hoof-print. “If your animal steps in it, and you wish it to not go
lame, you need to attend to its care as soon as you possibly can.
Correct?”

I did not wait for a reply; instead, I
continued.

“And that goes double for anything
of iron,” I spat. “If our horses throw shoes, or our buggies
break down, then getting them repaired in this area...”

“Is about impossible unless you
either know the right people or are very wealthy,” said
Kees, “and I suspect that 'or' needs to be replaced with 'and', now
that I think about it. I just hope I can do a good enough job of
cleaning, as I know my horse has walked in mule's slime.”

“Perhaps, uh, salaterus?” I asked.
My voice had become normal as to tone.

“No, just a good wash and then
drying,” said Lukas, “and the same for the irons. It might take
us a turn of the glass to do 'em all, if that.”

I then left the 'groom' to his anger,
and went to look after Jaak. He seemed uncommonly 'skittish', and
when I inspected his right front hoof, I did not need to guess as to
why.

“I'll fetch water directly,” I
said softly, as I went looking for a bucket and pump.

It took perhaps two minutes of
wandering for me to find a pump and buckets at the very end of the
rows of stalls, and as I began working the pump to fill buckets, I
heard steps coming closer. I turned to see Karl.

“What gives with that fellow?” he
whispered.

“I am not entirely certain,” I
said. “I have many and grave suspicions, however.” A brief
pause, then, “we need to carefully bathe the horses' hooves, then
dry them...”

“Good that you found the pump,”
said Hendrik, as he came to see the two of us. “I can carry two
buckets.”

I glanced around, and then noted a
stone-lined area but feet away. The drain spoke volumes.

“Hah!” I spat. “That place
there – a drain, the pump right here, and what looks like
traces...”

Hendrik looked closely at me, then
shook his head. I did not need to know his thoughts to discern his
thinking.

“Bring them in this area one by one,
perhaps?” I asked. “They clean their animals here, even
if they stable them elsewhere...”

A faint bray seemed to come from all
points of the compass, and Karl left post-haste.

With two 'scrubbers, a 'pumper', a
'carrier', and the rest drying, we had the horses done within a
matter of ten minutes or so. I then thought to look at the buggies,
and was surprised to hear the rattling sounds of wheels coming.

“How is that groom?” I asked
quietly, as I began scrubbing a wheel with a close-cropped broom.
The 'mule-muck' was not merely sticky, but very corrosive, for I'd
found more than one 'eaten' place on this particular wheel.

“Still waiting, and getting
irritable,” said Gilbertus. “I'm glad for those squibs and
things, as this place is likely to want 'em.”

“He was irritable when I first spoke
to him,” I said. “He's worse now, I take it.”

“I've seen worse,” said Gilbertus.
“He thinks he can hide what he's feeling.”

“He's better that way than some,”
I said, as I looked around. “Now I know one reason he didn't want
us in here.”

“Why?” asked Gilbertus. He took
the wheel I had just finished, and doused its rim with a dipper.
Someone else had removed a few buckets, and I could hear speech
regarding 'buggy-inspection'.

“Uh, no places for them to spy or
listen,” I murmured. “The rest of the place is almost like the
kingdom house at home that way.”

“That bad, eh?” said Gilbertus.
“I hope we can get more ink-pots, then.”

I was about to speak when Hendrik came
in with another wheel. He whispered to Gilbertus, then took the
'clean' wheel out. Gilbertus was clearly astonished.

“Yes?” I asked.

“It seems he spoke to someone about
further supplies,” said Gilbertus, “including more ink-pots.”

With the horses 'stalled' and the
buggies 'ready', I returned to where I had left the 'groom'. His
facial expression was unreadable beyond 'exceeding irritation' –
and I knew he was predominately irritated at me.

Silently he turned, then 'marched' to
the door I had seen before, which proved to be locked. After
extracting an obvious key from his clothing, he fitted the thing into
the lower portion of the metal door-plate.

As
he began twisting and wiggling the wood-handled key in the lower
portion of the lock, I looked again at his clothing. I seemed to see
not merely well-hid starched articles, but also some unusual
underclothing – and within seconds, I could plainly hear
rune-curses being chanted. They were not conventionally audible –
or so I suspected.

The first of these curses was
“Aieeeh-Skrull-Och,” and its meaning abruptly blasted into my
mind.

“He's commanding the hosts of hell
to enter into that lock so it will open for him!” I thought. “He's
treating it as though it's, uh, alive, and he wants to have complete
and total control over it!”

As if to answer, I heard another
instance of 'needing a privy' – he was 'saying' “Pee! Pee!
Pee!” - and again, I knew the meaning of this curse.

“He's naming himself an arch-witch,”
I thought incredulously, “and so that lock has to do as he
commands?” A brief pause. “What?”

The lock finally clicked with a sullen
noise, and he brusquely thrust aside the door to hit the wall with a
muffled thump. What lay beyond was a darkened hallway that flickered
with pale yellowish light. I led off behind him as he resumed his
'marching', and when I passed the door, I looked carefully at the
lock. For some reason, I wanted to speak to it.

“No hiding,” I thought, as I waved
my hand past it while walking. “Do not let any more, uh, witches
past you.”

The lockplate's darkened blues and
blacks suddenly softened and became both more uniform and
progressively lighter, and its now-soft mottled shades of gray seemed
to grin at me behind a faint halo of light blue haze. I left it
behind, and hurried to catch up to the 'groom'.

His footfalls rang steadily, much as
if he were a black-dressed thug dragging his sword while marching the
true-step, and amid the faint whining echoes, I seemed to hear
matters of 'importance'. I had heard these statements before, and
the chiefest one was that of the second kingdom's monarch.

“All count on you now?” I thought.
There was no answer beyond the obvious one but a few feet ahead of
me.

The flickering light glaring from each
side of the current passage seemed vaguely smoky, and a glance showed
sooty panes of glass partially hiding the sources of light. I paused
at one of these, and saw an obvious 'fifth-kingdom candle' with a
long and smoky flame; and at the next two, the same. The fourth
example, however, shed more light than those sources I had examined
before, and when I paused to look at the faintly hissing thing, I
nearly collapsed.

“Th-that's a p-pressure lantern,”
I gasped silently.

An instant's time spoke of much more:
riveted brass construction, faint traces of soot on the glass globe,
and a small painted area on the lantern's tank. This last depicted a
long and scaly greenish reptile dressed in black formal wear, and the
recollection of statements I had heard regarding 'Infernal' lanterns
spoke of my seeing a prime example thereof.

The pathway steadily dropped below
grade as we followed the marching 'groom', and after perhaps two
hundred yards, we came to a corner heading left. I wondered about
the distance, so much so that I suspected it was greater than the
size of the 'upper works', and the thought that this location had its
more-important portions underground grew rapidly in my mind.

“And to speak of it would be
unwise,” I thought. “All of this, or nearly all of it, is my
hands.” A brief pause, then, “all count on you now?”

Never had those words seemed so
utterly and completely true as they did currently.

The current passage now slightly
widened to show wide iron-bound doors to the right and left. I could
feel secret passages of long and winding nature hiding behind most of
them; and while the floor still was white and crystalline, I could
feel trouble encompassing us round about. I glanced overhead, saw a
blackened metallic latticework – and for an instant, a darkened
face showed amid deep and concealing shadow.

“I'm not surprised,” I thought.
“Blackbeard has his spies within and without. I'd keep
matches handy, and ready the squibs.”

I hoped someone in our party had
either heard my thinking or had noticed my behavior. Doors again to
our right and left, the floor steadily sloping down like a mine's
incline, and now drifts as well as doors. I half expected to see
narrow-gage railways with mine-cars half-filled with some kind of
ore.

The 'drifts' were dim and dismal, with
poor lighting and what might have been dust and dirt lurking in their
corners, and to each side of those I looked down, I saw more doors.
Another turn, this one again to our left, and the doors and 'drifts'
were gone to be replaced by a feeling of strangeness too difficult to
put into words.

“What is up above us?” I asked
softly.

The 'groom' halted in mid-stride, and
as he turned slowly, I saw his 'mask' come up to hide a face
hideously distorted by rage. He was about to explode, for I felt
wave upon wave of intense 'anger' and mind-ravaging irritation
billowing off of him; and as if he had spoken – no, yelled, and
that at the top of his lungs – I heard the following:

“Be ye silent, ye over-fool, for I
hath had sufficient of thine stupidities this day!”

He said nothing with his mouth,
however, and he turned to resume his 'marching'. I could again hear
the crash of the true-step along with the whining echoes, and when he
turned another corner to the left, I knew 'the inner sanctum' was but
a short distance further.

He proved my suspicions but a short
time later, for he halted abruptly and turned slowly to point with
outstretched arm. I turned to look, and saw a long arched-roof
tunnel lit dimly and roofed with what looked to be smoke. It ended
with another iron-bound door.

The groom about-turned, and now raised
his feet high and slammed them down in an obvious version of the
true-step. No longer did he attempt to hide what he was, even as he
came up to the door to knock thrice softly. As I watched, an
eye-level peephole hissed open, then closed with a clack seconds
later – and then, the door itself opened with a faintly rusty
creaking hiss to admit the 'groom'.

The door remained open to show a
fabric drape. Again, my choice to enter; and this time, I did not
hesitate.

Smells compounded of distillate,
strong drink, rotten food – not just meat, but in general – and
other odors too noxious to name pounded upon my nose, and when I came
to the drape itself, I hesitated until I had 'looked' beyond it. The
coast seemed 'clear', and I moved the drape aside softly with my left
hand prior to entering the well-lit realm beyond, where I held the
drape open for the others to pass. Once they had entered, I looked
around.

The room we had entered was of
astonishing size, with a wooden floor of awesome and spectral mottled
black. The walls that I could see were covered with old wood of a
dark and fine-grained species, while the light came from numbers of
head-high windows hiding lanterns behind their glass panes.

On three walls, I saw dark-colored
'heavy-looking' wooden tables replete with carving and inlay mingled
among other 'furnishings' of repulsive and filigreed ornateness, and
the whole circumscribed three walls of the room. I turned toward the
fourth, and found them absent.

Their place had been taken by a
knee-high dais, with a gilded and carved wooden chair central upon
it, and but feet from the juncture of floor and dais sat a row of
ornate red-cushioned chairs. I looked closer at the central chair,
even as I distinctly felt two doors in the wall opposite.

Doors that hid heavily armed thugs.

The chair had armrests tipped with
black metal claws, and a multitude of forged iron struts supported
each armrest. For some reason, I felt reminded of Henry the Eighth,
and for once, I had an idea as to why.

“Th-that's a throne,” I thought.

Following hot upon such rapid – or
perhaps, rabid – thoughts were more thoughts regarding doors
hiding thugs. Those, I suspected, were but one of the innumerable
local sources of trouble, while the chief instigator of trouble in
the area was perched upon the 'throne'.

Gabriel had been utterly wrong as to
ceremony, I now realized. The second kingdom had far more than it
superficially showed; the third kingdom had less than the second, but
showed all of what it had; the fourth kingdom had perhaps a trifle...
And this place?

“It has more ceremony than
everywhere else put together!” I thought.

Looking upon Blackbeard in the flesh,
however, made for scarce-suppressed dry heaves, for he stank of much
more than mere ceremony: he had not bathed in quite some time; he
obviously enjoyed High Meats and strong drink, and those in
abundance; his clothing, stiff as sheet-metal, reeked of 'expensive'
starch; and finally, his face...

His narrow-eyed gaze was but partly
hidden by a thatch of unruly long black hair, while his
mustache-and-goatee-bordered mouth was open partly to show yellowed
black-edged teeth. For some reason, I now thought of an 'oriental
satrap' – and the joke that went with that label came abruptly to
mind.

“Er, sand-trap,” I thought.
The joke was an old one, and much needed in the face of such acute
danger as I now felt.

Danger was not all I felt as we took
our places on the seats; I could hear plainly scraps of 'speech',
much like I had earlier, only in this instance, the speech was
actually understandable and I recognized both the speaker and his
attitude. The groom had vanished, and I glanced at Hendrik, whose
grimace confirmed what I was hearing.

“This fellow” – these words, and
those following them positively reeked with 'acid' – “must have
studied the ways of Cardosso regarding attitude and inclination
toward folly.”

“And?” I thought.

“Cardosso and his people respected
titles more than all else,” 'said' Hendrik, “and all of the
pendants had titles associated with them.” A pause, then, “if I
address him and need to speak of you, what should you be called?”

“Er, something with 'defense',
perhaps?” I thought. “I suspect I will be involved with that at
some level, assuming this pendant doesn't devour me entirely.”

From the still-open door, faint
thumping steps came, and the slow and doom-laden snapping noise was
that of the true-step. Each succeeding step was louder than those
before it, until the curtain flung itself aside to show an individual
who was at once familiar and yet not so.

His black clothing was stiff with
starch, and its near-metallic sheen seemed to spew forth unsuppressed
'righteousness' by some strange means. His boots – stiff, pointed,
toe-rot-inducing – were only exceeded by the pot-and-saucer hat on
his head and the expression on his face. This last was a typical
miser's scowl enhanced by a species of rage beyond my comprehension,
and as I looked him over for the 'last time' – I had seen his like
enough to know they were all of a piece – I saw a long and
coiled brass horn at his side.

The horn reminded me of a constipated
snake.

With stiff and stylized movements that
reeked of formality and roboticism, this man raised his horn to his
lips to blow a long tooth-shaking note suitable for the summoning of
swine. The ear-rupturing volume and horrible tone quality was such
that I could think of another use for the horn.

“If ever a man needed to be hung out
to dry,” I thought, “that man does – and using that accursed
horn in lieu of a rope.”

However, when he lowered his horn –
again, his movements looked appropriate to a robot – and then
screamed as if in great pain, I wondered if he had ripped his insides
apart by blowing his horn. Due to the strident nature of the
hog-call, it took me over a second to decipher what he had screamed.

“Mere mortals, bow thineselves down
and reverence his majesty, who art High-King of Niederland!”

I heard much beyond a peculiarly
obnoxious form of the written format in these words, so much so that
I had trouble between choosing laughter and an expression of purest
disgust. More, I knew what I wasn't going to do, and my
thoughts followed this knowledge.

“I don't care if this wretch thinks
himself a latter-day version of that oven-stoking Babylonian king!”
I thought. “He does not rate worship.”

The truth, however obvious to myself,
meant nothing. This man believed as he felt inclined, he demanded
his inclination be regarded as the truth, and he would accept
nothing less than perfect mind-reading obedience to his slightest
whim. To our right, the horn-blasting wretch bowed low from the
waist, and to our rear, I 'saw' a small crowd of armed men doing
likewise. The two previously 'hidden' doors were hidden no longer.

Hendrik stood, as did Kees and
Gabriel, and I did as well. None of the three bowed. I did as they
did, and when they retook their seats, I had a strong impression:
such improprieties were not merely the overtopping height of
rudeness, but regarded as potent evidence of witchcraft.

The wretch upon the throne had been
irritated and angry, and his anger grew apace into something thicker
and darker than it had been, while his inclination toward violence
did likewise. Gabriel sat to my right. He turned to whisper in my
ear.

“You may wish to show it.”

With exaggerated care, I gingerly
removed the pendant from inside my shirt. The glow coming from the
back arrested my hand in mid-move, and with widened eyes I looked
upon the pendant's back to see all four lines burning brightly with
flickering rage. I nearly dropped the pendant in surprise.

“I wasn't about to give that fool
worship,” I thought. “He cannot keep me out of trouble.”

Clear as a bell tolled soft words
within my mind, and I gave them close ear:

“He needs no dreams interpreted,”
said the soft voice, “for he endures nightmares of crystalline
clarity.” A brief pause. “He desires greatly the bleeding
'splendor' of the Sand-Trap.”

“What?” I thought. I had heard
nothing of humor in those words.

“Should he remain as he is,” said
the soft voice, “and you deal with him as he deserves, it will be
no loss to the region.” Again, a brief pause. “You have
sufficient trouble ahead with imported witches, and you do not
need domestic witches helping them.”

Hearing the man upon the 'throne'
named a witch decided my thoughts to a substantial degree, and I
again looked upon his clothing. Why, I did not know, save the faint
possibility of learning clues of some kind.

“The same tailor as every other
black-dressed thug I've seen,” I thought, “and he's got more
starch in that stuff than anything.” I then saw he had donned
headgear.

“Pot-and-saucer hat, two mottled
purplish feathers,” I thought, even as I recalled my inventory of a
certain witch's clothing. “I wonder if he's wearing starched
underclothing?”

As if to answer, he altered his
position slightly. The relentless crackling spoke of 'sheet-metal'
underwear.

Hendrik moved slightly, then stood. I
could clearly see he had his work cut out for him, and as he spoke, I
wondered if he was being heard.

“That witch to the north is betting
the farm a year from this coming harvest,” he said, “and when she
comes, she will come with all she has.” Hendrik paused. “She
will bring every witch, every sword, every ax, dagger, pig, soldier,
and ship she can muster...”

“Dynamite,” I thought. “They
have dynamite and distillate now.”

Hendrik seemed to have not heard me,
for he continued with his own thoughts. I suspected omission of
Norden's latest achievements did not matter to the man on the throne.

“She comes with the goal of killing
all not her people,” he said, “and burning all else.” Another
brief pause. “If we win against them, they are done – and if
they establish even a small foothold to the north, then we”
– here, Hendrik spoke with added emphasis – “are done.”

Blackbeard responded in the manner I
had expected: his eyes narrowed further until they resembled slits,
and he leaned forward slightly while his mustache and goatee bristled
as if electrified.

I had never before seen such blatant
aggression, even as he put his thin-fingered hand under his chin so
as to 'think' – and once he had done so, I noticed the glowing.

He, his 'throne', the floor near him,
and indeed the air surrounding him, now glowed a faint yet obvious
neon red-orange. He removed his hand to his side, then scowled like
a miser before speaking.

“That be no concern of mine,” he
spat in a high-pitched voice. “I have this realm for mine own, and
my pleasure is mine sole concern.” He paused for a fraction of a
second, even as the neon red-orange grew more obvious and covered
more of him. His eyes now glowed with a feral orange-red light.

“All that lives here exists solely
for the pleasure of mine whim,” he said. I could hear much beyond
what he said audibly. “Those who be to the north can rot, and that
such that I am well pleased.” He paused. “It will serve such
over-fools well indeed to be ground underfoot by witches, yea, and
when they art crushed and slaughtered, those slaves that remain alive
shall learn ere they die of those rules that truly govern existence.”

Again, he paused. I wasn't certain if
he was inclined toward emphasis of his words, or not.

“Yea, and them who die shall die
screaming,” he snarled, “and mine joy shall be made complete.”

His red-fired face had acquired a
reptilian aspect, and when he darted his head toward me, I saw his
forked serpent's tongue lick his thin and scaly lips. In a hissing
tone, he addressed me:

“Thou” – he spoke as if
addressing an object to which he assigned human attributes for the
pleasure of his whim – “art not to the North. Thou art
within mine chambers.” He paused. “And all that be found within
my grasp art mine for my taking, and so thou art.”

He paused again, licking his lips, and
his fangs showed blood-dripping and predatory within a face that
portrayed evil bereft of humanity. Red-glaring fires usurped his
eyes, and his black-nailed hands had morphed into the talons of a
monster. With a voice I heard in two ears at once – in one ear,
the oily-sounding voice of a cruel and vicious human fiend, and in
the other, a roaring maelstrom imported from Hell itself – he spoke
his final Faustian bargain:

“What thou wearest interests
mineself,” he said. “Come hither, that I might take it to have
for mine own.” A brief pause, then, “thou hast no need of such
baubles, and my desire be greater than thine.”

Asking questions, save of one person,
was a complete waste of time. Only one person had the answer, and I
knew beyond all doubt that person was not me.

I stood from my seat, looking around
myself seemingly in an instant while my mind raced.

He would not comprehend anything
smacking of rudeness.

Nor would he endure mere words.

His type understood action, and little
else.

Nonetheless, I needed to speak what
words I could.

“This pendant only tolerates the one
whose name is inscribed upon its back,” I said flatly. “Yours is
not present.”

“Rubbish,” he spat. “Such
things be but lies writ long ages ago.”

I looked intently at the man, and as I
watched, his visage – and voice – changed so drastically and
quickly that I nearly fell to my seat in boneless shock.

“Be that one the last of such
things?” he asked wolfishly. “If it be so, then I desire it
greatly, for it giveth its bearer dominion over all this world.”
He paused. “Bringest thou that bauble, and give it me, lest I take
it by force of arms.” Another pause. “Regardless, thou art dead
at mine command, for thou shalt not leave mine presence with thine
life.”

I felt a cold metallic cylinder in my
right hand, and I knew not what to do with it. I took a slow and
unsteady step toward the 'throne', and then another. I could feel
movement at the back of the room, and with sudden shock amid slowing
time, I knew those thugs behind me were aiming weapons.

I needed to act.

“Possess and implement... Much will
depend...”

I twisted around too fast to think.

“Upon your actions...”

I threw the cap I had palmed and then
dropped down on bent knees such that my head was even with the tops
of the chairs.

“Both here...”

A firing line had formed at the back
of the room, and the shooters had their weapons cocked and aimed.
The cap flew like a bullet and struck the hammer of one of the rifles
nearest the center – and the crack of the cap's explosion was
answered by thundering roars as the shooters volleyed.

“And in the future.”

Bullets howled over my head, and as
the echoes began to fade in my ringing ears, I heard an unending
scream of pain.

I ignored the screamer and his agony,
and reached into my bag for an ink-globe, even as those in the chairs
were but beginning to realize something had happened. I cocked my
arm, then threw the squib.

The glossy globe flew like a tracer
bullet, and the sparks and smoke-trail spoke of a burning fuse –
until suddenly, the bomb abruptly hooked to the right and dove down
into an open-topped sporran.

A thug was reaching into it, most
likely to reload, and the sporran disintegrated in a brilliant
red-orange blossom of fire that sent three thugs flying bonelessly
into the air.

My hands were not idle, even as I
watched raptly amid screams and other noises, and I had palmed
another bomb when one of those in the chairs tossed a squib toward
the back of the room. The smoke-trail and sparks of the slow-flying
globe spoke of a lit fuse.

Several of the still-standing thugs
were collapsing in slow motion. That bomb had a date with their
feet, and it exploded at knee-level but a few feet in front of them.
Two of the thugs dropped in place, even as my second squib took
flight.

The smoke-trail spoke of straight and
level flight nearly half the distance, then an abrupt curve and dive
followed by a circling movement as it 'flew' but inches above the
floor. The open door near the right corner erupted in billows of
blue-gray smoke and white flashes followed by the boneless bodies of
several thugs that landed outside in a crumpled heap.

Those thugs still standing seemed in
shock, and their clumsy movements as they attempted reloading spoke
of abject terror. Something fell to the floor, and the thug who had
dropped it followed it down mutely to then flop feebly.

I turned my back upon the room's rear
mayhem, and now looked at the 'throne'. Its squirming occupant had a
sagging left shoulder, and the upper left portion of his black-cloth
shown with a peculiarly liquid sheen.

Instantly, I knew the following:

He'd been struck in the upper left
torso near the shoulder, rendering his left arm useless.

The source of the sheen was blood, and
the puddle forming on the dais was frothy and bright red.

The nature of his injury spoke of a
cause far worse than a common musket ball.

“Minié 'ball'?” I thought.
I had read about their lethal ways. I was now seeing
what they could do.

He would die quickly, unless God
intervened on his behalf.

With such grim knowledge present, I
drew my sword. The hissing sound seemed to ring in the room; the man
on the dais seemed oblivious to all save his wound. I turned, and
took a step closer.

There was not a shred of hesitancy in
my steps. His squirming grew feebler before my eyes. His eyes, wide
open shock-staring, had fastened upon the blade in my hand. I had
but little in my mind beyond the need to tell him the truth – and
then, take matters from there.

His blood had spread quickly, and his
throne was now dripping redness here and there. Much of his clothing
was wet with blood.

“Two choices,” I said. My voice
was a flat uninflected monotone. “Either change your heart and
ways in totality, or learn of Brimstone's table manners.” A brief
pause. “You have but a few minutes to make your choice, and endure
the consequences thereof.” Another pause. “Which shall it be,
sir?”

He moaned feebly amid yet-feebler
squirms.

“That answer is not satisfactory,”
I said. Again, the same flat monotone. “Those people are
reloading, those of them who can.” I paused, this time for
emphasis. “Either tell them to lay down their weapons and back
away from them, or they will regret their decisions in hell.”

He did not speak. His faint smile was
hidden beneath waves of pain. I still saw it clearly.

I turned and simultaneously dropped to
my knees, then leaped to the side as one of the men fired at me.
He'd come within six feet of the chairs somehow, and as I leaped to
my feet, I saw a cartwheeling black object flying through the air in
pursuit of the hobbling assassin as he turned toward the rear of the
room. I went to ground as a massive eruption of brilliant white
flashed next to the thug's head.

Most of those still standing fell to
the floor. But a few remained standing.

I saw the brass tip of a powder flask
poking out of the mouth of a 'sporran'. Idly, I thought the word
'explode'.

The entire back of the room erupted in
crimson flames and billows of powder smoke as bodies flew crazily to
land with muffled thuds. The explosions pounded hard upon my ears,
even as a thick gray billowing wall of powder smoke now blocked off
the entire rear half of the room.

“Good,” I thought. “They should
leave us alone now.” I turned back toward the front of the room.

The man upon the dais had barely open
eyes, and as I stepped closer, I saw details – pallid face,
clustered beads of sweat, rapid breathing, and slowing blood-flow –
that told me plenty.

“You will die within a very few
minutes,” I said flatly.

He moved his mouth slowly, as if
trying to speak. Faintly, I heard the words 'help me'.

“No!” I growled. “I will not
help you. One word, two choices. God or the Devil. Choose!”

“Hide me,” he sobbed.

I shook my head, then said 'blithely',
“hiding you as you are will send you straight to the plate of
Brimstone, and that as a meal.” My voice now dripped with
acid. “If you like Brimstone that much, then perhaps you
should dine with him.” I paused. “Isn't that what the
phrase 'Sup with Brimstone' means?”

Amid screams of agony, the man's
spilled blood caught fire and blazed hot and red to envelope both
the throne and its occupant in seething red-yellow flames. Black
smoke wreathed the room as I shuddered soundlessly.

“N-no, no fire,” I mumbled in
shock. “He has not chosen yet.” The flames went out abruptly.
“If he chooses to burn, then let him do so.”

A thick and fatty aroma – the scent
of burnt flesh – now reeked in my nostrils. The man upon the
throne was engulfed by terror amid the ashes of his clothing, and I
came closer.

The sword in my hand wavered slightly
side-to-side, much as if it were hungry for the blood of evildoers,
and the point seemed fixated upon the gasping chest of the man.

Much as if I were inclined to 'run him
through'.

And knowing sure and certain that if I
killed him, I would not stop with his death: I would cut off his head
to adorn a pole, cut his remainders in pieces to bag and then hang to
rot – and then put the entirety of the city to the torch, with the
goal of killing all living things I found within it and then
destroying the entire area completely.

“What?” I thought, even as I
realized my thinking thusly was a distraction. I put it out of my
mind prior to speaking.

“I would choose if I were you,” I
said, in a flat emotionless monotone “and I know who I would
choose.”

A pause, half a second perhaps.

“Should you choose wrongly, it will
be no loss. You will burn.”

Another pause, this briefer than that
before.

“You have seen it happen, and felt
the flames of the burn-pile – and that at my questioning, not my
choice. That says that God's patience with you is at an end.”

His moaned reply was barely audible.
It made for a mental question upon my part.

“Is he in shock, or is he stalling?”
I wanted an answer, and did not receive one.

I raised my left hand, turning my palm
to face me, and motioned slightly with my index finger. My message
was 'come', and to my entire and complete surprise, his limp and
bloody body lifted slowly off of his 'throne' and drifted toward me
while leaving a slow-growing trail of blood. He halted but three
feet away from me still hanging motionlessly in midair.

I felt angry, for reasons unknown, and
fury filled my next words.

“You are a brigand,” I snarled,
“and you killed any and all that stood in your way, such that you
and yours hold this region by evil means. You lie when it suits you,
you kill when you feel inclined – and, not least, you specifically
wished my death.”

I paused, this time for emphasis. He
needed to hear the next portion.

“I suspect that makes you a
witch,” I spat.

In the corner of my eye I saw
'movement', and I turned while moving to the side and dropping to my
knees. Seconds later, a blood-sheeted black-dressed thug staggered
from amid the clouds of smoke, his weapon cocked and shouldered amid
a faint cloud of reddish haze. The weapon's muzzle waved and shook
crazily, even as he tried to aim at me.

I thought one thing, and that clearly:

“Sup with Brimstone, witch!”

The reddish haze instantly changed
into flames amid an eruption of gouting sparks, and as the roar of
his burning cudgeled my hearing, I saw his clothing vanish as if made
of 'celluloid'. He writhed soundlessly as his weapon fell from
nerveless fingers; his skin vanished in a flash, followed by his
flesh; and as his barren skeleton rotted into powdery dust before my
eyes, I noted the gun was still falling.

His powdered body formed a dusty
cushion that the gun sent flying in a thick and acrid cloud, and amid
the settling dust, I heard first a deathly scream, then a rumbling
reptilian roaring sound. I could almost feel spiky teeth ripping
into my body.

The fading echoes in my mind became
background noise within perhaps half a second, and I turned back to
the still-dangling 'problem'. My sword wavered slightly, as though
it scented blood and was howling for his death.

“Now where was I?” I asked acidly.
“That man was a witch, and I told him in my thoughts to burn.”
A brief pause, then, “it seems he did.” My voice abruptly
gained both rage and volume; it became a vicious echoing growl.
“Have you made up your mind, or do you wish to burn as your
fully-owned witch-slave just did?”

He feebly shook his head. He was
almost bled dry.

“I have not heard a satisfactory
answer,” I snarled, as I brandished my sword. “You need
carving.”

Quicker than thought my sword moved to
make three horizontal slices joined by a single diagonal example. He
moaned feebly, then somehow looked down upon his chest.

I'd
sliced him to the bone, and the raw and open slices scarce showed
sign of blood.

“Not enough blood left to bleed,”
I thought.

This thinking, however, was but the
appetizer, for I now looked at the faint traces of blood at the tip
of my sword. The movement had been so rapidly the four slices had
appeared as if by 'magic'. “I might have managed to count to
four...” was an epoch compared to the hazy eyeblink of time I had
needed. He now seemed to be in a coma.

“No, not yet,” I muttered, “and
no shock, either. Another thirty seconds, please.” A pause, then
more muttering, this time mostly to myself.

“I have no idea why he has not
chosen God yet. Any sane man would have done so after being shot
like he was.” I then raised my voice, and the tone spoke of
consternation:

“Are you sane?”

Moving slow, his epiglottis waggled.
I put the point of my bloody sword at that portion which had just
moved. I had a precise idea, one of crystalline clarity, and I would
act upon it, now; he had chosen Brimstone. I would take his head so
as to spike it. His city would burn, and all in it would die.

I jerked my hand, and the point of the
sword entered his throat. He shook, then screamed.

“Help me, please!”

I ignored his call to Brimstone, and
slowly and with grim relish continued to push the tip of my sword
into his neck. I would but need to wiggle my hand slightly to remove
his head, and I knew where I could find an iron pole ready-sharpened
so as to impale it.

More importantly, I had no desire to
hear his witch-drivel. He needed to burn in hell where he belonged.
I was past caring. I wanted him dead.

“G-god, pl-please, forgive me,” he
whispered.

I halted in mid-twitch, then yanked my
sword from his neck in a flash. He fell to the floor in a crumpled
heap to lie there as if dead.

“Now what?” I asked. “Is he..?”

There was no answer, save a feeble
inclination to wait. I thought to speak, for some reason.

“If you still live, then what you
spoke suffices,” I said to the 'corpse', “and assuming you are
not elsewhere...”

“...Hell...” rang in my mind.

“Then you first must be cleaned up,
and that properly,” I said evenly. “That is very needed, as a
dirty rag is worthless when the dishes need cleaning.” I glanced
around aimlessly, seeing a still-as-a-statue room clotted with powder
smoke and reeking of blood. “There is a great deal of
housecleaning you must do. It may well start in here, but...”

“...Rise Up...”

Again, words in my mind. I was not
hearing them conventionally, but in some other fashion.

“But rest assured, it does not
end in this house,” I said. “This entire, uh, area, needs to be
cleaned, cleaned thoroughly, cleaned well, and purged completely of
any and all traces of evil...”

“Rise up, and...”

I looked around, wondering as to what
I was hearing and wondering if I were making a heinous error.
Had I heard wrongly? Had I become a worse fool than this man by
doing what I had done? Words bloomed in my mind and erased the
distraction.

“You shall now meet your judge,” I
mumbled, “and no, that person isn't me.” I shuddered inside with
a grimace of distaste at the very idea. I wasn't popular
enough to be a judge.

My mouth had continued without me in
some fashion, and I caught up with it. Now I could speak knowingly
and with understanding.

“I am not fit to clean the lowest
privies in that court,” I said with finality. “Come.”

The ceiling seemed to shake, even as I
raised my eyes. Faint glowing traceries limned the darkened blocks
overhead; they commenced spreading, and then with a long and
drawn-out shuddering rumble, the ceiling vanished and was replaced by
thick and agile billows of bluish-white fire.

I reached down, picked up the corpse
– he was growing perceptibly stiff and cold – and tossed him into
the clouds, where he vanished without a trace. I then felt in my
possible bag for a rag, found one, and went to a chair so as to clean
my sword.

“Now how could he have spoken, given
I'd put two inches of steel in his throat?” I thought, as I cleaned
the tip.

The silence of the others was
astonishing, so much so that when I stood to insert my sword in its
scabbard, I thought to look to see if they had been 'taken over'. I
was about to check Gabriel when I heard a muffled thump behind me. I
turned, and did not understand what I was seeing.

The corpse I had tossed had been
returned to life, though with marked changes. His boots and hat had
vanished, and where he had once had had long greasy hair, a goatee,
and a long ragged mustache, he now had bare scalp and skin, all of it
liberally hacked by a dull razor. His black clothing had vanished.

His clothing had been replaced by a
shapeless rough-stitched bag of what resembled 'burlap', with ragged
frayed holes for his head and arms.

His skin was a dusky – and dusty
– mottled gray, and the whole formed an indelible picture in my
mind. I recalled from history the term for his clothing, and had
trouble believing what I was seeing. The dread descriptive phrase
ran roughshod through my mind as he stirred feebly amid the
acrid-tasting mounds of dust that had somehow accompanied him.

“Sackcloth and ashes?” I thought,
as I walked slowly nearer. I knelt down some few feet away, well
clear of the ashes and dust. With each of his movements, however, I
seemed to faintly feel something like coarse sandpaper grinding on my
skin.

“Your clothing was closer to sheet
metal with all of its starch,” I said softly. I looked down at my
arm, and noticed a scratch. I wondered how it had gotten there.
“What you are wearing does not seem much of an improvement.” I
paused, and softly rubbed my other arm – and jerked my hand away in
alarm to then look at my right hand.

“That felt like broken glass,” I
thought, even as both arms now burned and itched. I continued
speaking seconds later.

“Do you have proper clothing?” I
asked – and my trousers twitched twice, much as if someone had put
a measuring cup of large and irritated ants inside them. I wanted to
scratch, only my shirt was feeling as if Sarah had somehow put a
thistle under each armpit.

The former 'thug' struggled to his
knees and fell face-down, where he now wept and moaned. Nothing he
said was understandable to me, and to see him weep bothered me
greatly. I turned toward the others – they had awoken, seemingly –
and asked in a frightened voice, “what does all of this mean?”

“This is the day of retribution,”
said Hendrik, “and it looks as if he acquired sense.” A brief
pause, then, “I have never seen such clothing as his, nor have I
heard of it.”

“S-sackcloth and ashes?” I
thought. “What..?”

Hard upon the heels of such thinking
came the recollection of what 'sackcloth' was actually like near
home. I glanced down at my trousers, and touched them – and knew
that the same type of cloth was used for both. I then looked at the
returnee.

“Th-that stuff is worse than
anything I've ever seen, including sandpaper,” I thought. “Was
the stuff in the book this bad?” I then answered Hendrik.

“S-sackcloth is spoken of in the
book,” I said evenly, “and the term 'sackcloth and ashes' is
associated with repentance.” A brief pause, during which I touched
my trousers and jerked my hands away. “Not 'commonplace'
repentance, either. This is when the person is willing to do
whatever is required to make things right with God and those they
have wronged.”

My clothing was becoming steadily more
uncomfortable, and I muttered, “and what he's wearing doesn't look
at all comfortable, and discomfort is a distraction I have great
trouble enduring.”

An unearthly scream came from beneath
the man, then he lifted his head slightly as he moaned faintly.

“S-starch is the way of evil,” he
shrieked. I felt cut-off from humanity at his utterance. “It is
now cinders, and they cut like knives.” Brief pause. “Black-cloth
is the way of evil, and it has become a cheap sack to hold rotting
meat and dead bones.” Another pause, this one briefer. “Woe is
me, for I am as Cardosso was, and I sought to become as he was in all
possible ways.”

I shook my head, and nearly shrieked
with the sensation of sandpaper against the back of my neck before
saying, “he needs more comfortable clothing badly.”

I bent down so as to pick him up, and
nearly screamed at the touch of his clothing. It felt as if made of
woven barbed wire, and what I was wearing seemed to be something too
similar to tell apart – and to top it all, I felt so incredibly
itchy that I nearly went into a convulsion.

Yet still, I lifted him up, and turned
toward the others.

“Where... Ouch! Do they have
c-clothing here?” I asked. “Ouch! Maybe they have
s-something...”

I nearly screamed with the pain. I
felt as if my skin was being torn off piecemeal, and when I looked
closer at the row of chairs, it proved to be 'absent'. Neither
chairs nor their occupants were currently in the room.

With no answer, I knew myself to be
alone. I would need to find the clothing myself, presuming it was
available. I turned toward the cloth covering the doorway, and took
a first and tentative step.

“Ouch!” I shrieked.

The horn-blower was long gone, and
with each step, I seemed to not merely feel as if torn apart, but I
seemed to hear convulsive sobbing. I passed slowly down the hallway,
each step a blazing paroxysm of pain wracked by more of such sobbing.
I paused to listen.

“He's w-weeping,” I thought, even
if I could not understand a single word.

Nor did I need to. My skin felt as if
it was being ripped to shreds.

At the juncture of hallway and larger
passage, I paused to look up. Here, the ceiling had vanished to be
replaced by roiling blue-white clouds of fire, and the floor was
part-carpeted with people laying prostrate amid slow-growing puddles
of moisture. I was glad none of them were wearing 'sandpaper', for
with each step, I was learning more and more about such clothing.

Some fifty feet and a half-dozen
people away, I saw a thin woman with dark hair. I walked around
those laying upon the floor, and with each step, I heard faint
crackling noises underfoot. The aspect of 'crispy' was too hard to
ignore, even if I could not trace the source of it.

The woman I had seen reminded me more
than a little of Sarah, and the recollection of the latter woman made
it slightly easier to walk closer. I came to her side, knelt down
with care, and asked, “dear, where is the clothing?”

“Down the hall three doors, and then
right,” she said. Her voice rang in my mind, and I could almost
see Sarah in front of me. “I am glad this is happening, for I have
longed for it ever so long.”

I left 'Little Miss Strange' behind
me, and continued my dodging ways until I came to the doorway in
question. It too led to a long dim-lit corridor, and when I came to
the door, I asked it to open. The clacking sound, followed by
grinding creaks, made me wonder what kind of a room we had come to.

The pulsating lighting, the reek of
distillate, and the profound smells otherwise spoke of a very
unpleasant place, and I moved slowly into the room.

Ahead lay a floor-to-ceiling screen
made of lath and dark-brown cloth, and I walked to the right once I'd
come to it. A long table formed an aisle between screen and table,
and to my right past several rows of shorter tables I saw numbers of
wooden 'cabinets'. For some reason, I knew their contents to be
unsuitable, and I continued on.

Another tall screen blocked my forward
path, and I could only go right or left. I wanted right, for some
reason, and when I came to another dim-lit hall, I hurried along it,
until I came to another door. It proved unlocked at my request, and
I hurried inside.

“Oh, my,” I thought. “This
place has...”

I wasted no time, and found a stool
for my burden. I set him down, then looked at one of the 'racks' as
he continued weeping.

“I'm looking for comfortable
clothing for you,” I said, as I glanced in his direction. I had
found piled-high trousers of some kind, and touching them spoke of
clean well-used cloth.

It took perhaps a minute or two to
find likely-looking shirt and trousers for the man, and I returned to
where he sat with the clothing in my arms. I knelt down with them in
my arms, and said, “here, put these on.”

He looked up with a face so utterly
changed that I could not recognize him, and he silently took both in
hand as he wobbled to his feet. I turned away, even as I heard the
sounds of clothes falling to the ground, and I retraced my steps
through the smelly region back out into the hall.

I needed to find that woman, for her
resemblance to Sarah was too much to be a coincidence, and when I
found her, she was still prostrate upon the floor. I knelt by her
side again, and was surprised to find my sensation was now
utterly normal.

“What do you do here, dear?” I
asked.

“Laundry,” she said. She did not
look up. “Why?”

“You remind me greatly of someone,”
I said, “and there is something on the ceiling that you need to
see. I suspect it has come for you.”

Abruptly, she ceased weeping, and as I
heard her do so, I recognized a profound difference between her and
most of the others in the hall; her tears had been mostly tears of
joy, rather than the fear or sorrow I had heard from many of the
others. She looked up.

She howled with giddy laughter – and
then from a prostrate position, she sprang up into the cloud as if by
'magic'.

“What?” I gasped. “That was
j-just like S-Sarah, and her face...”

Again, I saw Sarah's face, and I
compared the two. They weren't twins, but the resemblance was
astonishing just the same – and for far more than merely facial
features. I recalled the resemblance between Katje and Maria, as
well as some other people I had seen, and went back into the
'tailor's' shop.

I now noticed the smells far more, and
amid the combined stenches of strong drink and bad food I faintly
heard the sounds of acute illness. I was stunned and shocked to see
the man I had brought inside fouling a roll of cloth with the
contents of his stomach, and I grasped his hand and led him out at
the run.

“Urargh-Ptttaaah!” was the sole
noise he could make until I had gotten him well clear of that room.
I thought to ask him a question.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

He gave forth another instance of dry
heaves, then said in a quiet high-pitched voice, “that place makes
me sick.”

“It does?” I asked. “How?”

“B-bad f-f-food and w-worse drink,”
he said. “I ate nothing else for years, and now all of that food
makes me ill to smell it.”

He then looked at me. With his eyes,
he seemed to ask questions, much as if his mouth were too afraid to
speak words that might be the type beloved of witches.

“Uh, come with me to that one room,”
I murmured. “At least someone can look after you there while I
check on things around here.”

I moved around the people still
face-down upon the floor, and now saw that the situation applied to
the entire length of the hallway. More importantly, I saw obvious
vacancies compared to minutes ago, and while I guided the erstwhile
king back to his 'office', I saw a most-plausible reason why.

Two people, one an elderly man and
another a woman barely out of her teens, leaped for the sky and
vanished.

I thrust aside the cloth to find the
others present in the still-smoky room. Their glassy-eyed mien, as
well as their waxy pallor, spoke of something I could not identify,
and when I went to the man on the end furthest from where I had sat –
Karl – I waved my hand in front of his face. I then asked him to
wake up.

He suddenly jolted, then asked, “what
happened to me?”

“I think we were ridden somehow,”
said Lukas, “though that was the strangest riding I ever heard of.”

“How?” I asked.

“I wasn't able to move or speak,”
he said, “but I could see and hear everything.”

“When?” I asked.

“When that man...” Lukas looked
around in complete confusion, for the previously fussily-neat room
was now a shambles. The 'throne' had gone to charred crumbled coals
amid still-glowing iron pieces and ashes, while...

“Good, that wretch with the horn
will never blow again,” said Sepp with satisfaction. “Someone
aired out his smelly hide.”

“What?” I gasped. “How did
th-those s-squibs...”

“I wanted to toss one,” said
Lukas, “but when that witch on that chair spoke of taking the
pendant, I froze to my seat.”

“As did we all,” said Hendrik.
“We only 'woke up' when you awoke us.”

“You spoke that way..?” I asked.

“It was as he said,” said Hendrik.
“I saw everything that happened, including those bombs you threw.”
A brief pause, then, “I had no idea you had secured dynamite.”

“I, uh...” I gagged. I wanted to
scream, as I knew someone was tossing things, and I wanted
answers. I glanced at the man I had returned with, noted
fast-fading scratch-marks over most of his body, and retraced my
steps to the hallway.